


Conquering Linens

by Whizbang



Series: my old fics [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Dreams, Hidden Feelings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 22:22:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whizbang/pseuds/Whizbang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over the past few months, Merlin has been having a series of nightmares, all around him being charged and tortured for the crime of using magic. Merlin finally conquers his fears, and establishes that the Arthur who despises him in his dreams is not the same as the true one he has come to love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conquering Linens

“But I’m not evil...I... I’m _not_...”  
“I’m not, Arthur, I’m just not...”  
  
Merlin moaned to himself as he tussled under the scratchy blankets.  
  
 _Why are you doing this to me?_  


It was the peak of the winter season; the trees were caked with white foam water, the rusted bars on the floor windows stung and cemented fingers when they were touched. Merlin, it seemed, was the lone object left that could still radiate heat, yet he could do so only from the panic and terror that crept up on him in his slumber.

Attacked by steamy sleep, Merlin sweated boiling water and flinched--a coward, in his midnight encounters with the fable Arthur, the one he didn’t want to believe, the myth, that one wasn’t real, it wasn’t. _He_ wasn’t. He wanted to escape, but at the same time, Merlin wanted to make progress with him. He wanted Arthur, in any reality, to love him. To love _him_. The him he knew he was. The him he actually was. He wanted Arthur to love Merlin. Not _idiot_ Merlin. Not _servant_ Merlin. Not even _adorable_ Merlin. (though Merlin wouldn’t protest to that title much in comparison to the others.) He wanted Arthur to love him as he was.

 

 _Wizard_ Merlin.

 _Warlock_ Merlin.

 _Dragonlord_ Merlin.

 

**Strong, Merlin.**

 

These were the titles that suited Merlin best.

They were the things that Merlin was proud of, but also, (for this is a terrible, disheartening coincidence and I wish it wasn’t so) these titles, these pieces of Merlin that he cherished are also the pieces Arthur could never begin to know.  


Merlin dreamt in a spiraling, sort of collective universe. The only parallel lines kept consistant were the cold, cold dungeon bars he could stick his hand through, that it could reach out, if only to think of how free it was; that hand was a free hand, and his foot was a captive foot, and that face, that leg, that shoulder, it was all a prisoner, but the hand, an escapee, was a free citizen. Out of a cage. It could wave in free air, it could flick and twist and move and it’s pores could breath free air that didn’t owe anything, not anything to anyone, for a moment, there was a part of Merlin that was not unlawful. Merlin, soaked in the bliss of self taught lies, taught like lessons in a book, like chapters, like articles, Merlin lied to himself as a spellbook could entice a reader who read allowed, ignorant to the fact that reading a spell a loud could kill a person, could unfold the magical energy as a note in a busy classroom’s creases patted down, and the pattern, distinguishable as it may be, is permanent after folding.

  
  
Merlin’s dream Arthur hated him. He hated all he stood for, spat on his face and grunted after kicking him in his throat, and Merlin, taking the beating like a duty, huddled in a ball and wept hotly.  
  
Arthur dictated over him, the fake Arthur, Uther’s son Arthur, the one, the mirror,

  a clone.  

  
Yet sometimes in Merlin’s dreams, Arthur, if only for a second, resembled that of his regular self.  


He sometimes entered the dungeons, alone, no knights to impress, or whips to smack and slick swiftly on Merlin’s sick flesh; sometimes, in brief gusts of Merlin’s mind wanting something decent before firing more emotional cannons, an intermission, Arthur would come up to Merlin and sit by his side and stare at him deeply sorry, sorry, he’d cringe, his brows disallowing words to leave from his fidgeting mouth and he’d look at Merlin as if he were an oracle, and that would stun Merlin so thoroughly, enchant him, Arthur was the real wizard all along, the true spectacle.

Merlin could forgive Arthur with just the look he gave him, the sad, tired look that sprung up in the midnightmares as a last ditch effort to keep fighting through.

 

But all respites end and when they do they reaffirm the plot where it left off. Calm turns to tide, and with that doors open and Arthur gets up in surprise and his brows wrinkle, angry this time, and Merlin is once again toppled to his side, blood dragged along veins like a chariot in the dirt, Arthur’s valiant knights of the round table taking turns as demons do in hell, and Merlin, wishing to god it would end, ends it for himself. The crowd of critics are startled with the second act ending scene II, Merlin standing on his own, standing.

Mentally, standing.

 

The crowd is hushed.

The brave knights are silent.

Arthur, astounded and outraged...

 

Merlin is torn up by scorn in the eyes he recognised as his friend’s.

 

It was the light touch of Merlin’s hands sliding under his arms that caused him to swallow hard. The jaw on his shoulder made his mind sputter expletives; their bodies pressing together tightly, embracing, Arthur thoroughly emasculated by this, this traitor, Arthur pulled at Merlin, backwards, he tried to push him to the ground and tell him he was wrong, but Merlin wouldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t, he, he just couldn’t...

 

It was bright in the morning.

 

The hand on his shoulder was worn and the fingers, thin, gentle, but firm and assertive. They shook Merlin from night and into daylight, Merlin’s foggy eyes scrunching and opening to see dull shapes.

 

It was Gaius’s dull shapes that introduced him back to Camelot in reality.

  
“hnnnn--” Merlin opened his eyes completely, shut them at the light and winced.  
  
“Merlin, it’s time for work! Arthur is at the door, he isn’t happy.” Gaius warned.  
  
For a moment Merlin questioned if he was awake or not, but the rush of his door slamming open made him sit up in bed, still sweating, and stare at the King leaning over him.  
  
Merlin smiled meekly and knew these eyes, bitter as they were, could never be the ones he saw in terrifying figments. They were too soft.  
  
Gaius sighed at the stupidity of this morning’s events, walking away and figuring Merlin deserved what justice Arthur would exert from the tardy. Not to mention the smile he was giving. That could only make matters worse.  
  
  
“Decided to sleep in today?” Arthur growled.  
“You uh, work me hard enough.” Merlin joked, starting to get a handle on the position he was in.  
Arthur’s eye twitched and he smirked.  
Merlin found this pleasant after the night he’s had.  
  
“Be prepared to be worked harder from now on, since you have time to sleep and all.”  
Arthur grabbed Merlin by his nightshirt and dragged him from his room.  
  
“But I’m not even dressed properly yet!” Merlin moaned.  
“Shut up, _Mer_ lin!” Arthur ordered.  


This is the Arthur that Merlin would serve gladly;  
  
  
                                                                              the one that he loved.

 


End file.
